Page 27 of Betrothal Between Enemies

Alistair grimaced. ‘What a delightful epithet.’

‘Well, how can you explain this? When the mountain erupted in 1631, ash and gases rolled down its sides in great pyroclastic flows towards the city. The priests got out the vials of blood—hardened blood, mind you—and San Gennaro’s relics and carried them through the city. The blood liquefied and the lava stopped at the city gates.’ Her eyes were alight with the thrill of the debate.

‘Maybe the lava had cooled, having travelled so far from its source and could go no farther. The city was simply lucky,’ he replied, tempting her to respond so he could watch her eyes flash. ‘You’re a scientist, Ismay. Do you truly think some bones and old blood stopped a volcano?’

She gave him a superior look. ‘As a scientist, I think there are things that defy human explanation. Just because something seems impossible doesn’t mean it is.’ He would miss this the most: the debating, the arguing, her confidence in believing she was irrevocably correct.

Back at Vista Sulla Baia, they offered a short account of their visit with Monticelli and the climb up Vesuvius, leaving out Alistair’s brush with disaster and Ismay’s incautious rescue, a conspiratorial glance passing between them as they wove their story.

‘I’m glad you’re both home safe,’ Sir Thomas said with uncustomary solemnity when they finished. ‘It was the height of recklessness to go up the mountain right now, and at night. Signor Monticelli should have known better with all the activity.’ He fixed Alistair with a hard stare. ‘Might I have a word in my study? Ladies, please excuse us.’

‘Is something amiss, sir?’ Alistair asked as the door shut behind them.

‘I should say so.’ There was no offer of a drink of rucolino. This was not a friendly talk. Alistair was reminded of his first impression of Sir Thomas Rose, a man of great intensity who masqueraded as a benign absent-minded scholar. ‘My daughter was in your care this weekend, and you exposed her to unconscionable risk. Monticelli can risk his own neck all he likes, but you should not have allowed him to imperil Ismay’s. A man who intends to be a husband must do better.’ Sir Thomas’s eyes blazed with the righteous indignation of a father wronged.

He could protest that Ismay’s mind had been made up, that she would not have listened and the best he could do was go along and protect her, although she had ended up doing the protecting. He could imagine what Sir Thomas would have thought of that. What sort of man allowed himself to be led around by his wife? So Alistair said instead, ‘Yes, sir. It was a mistake in judgement on my part. I underestimated the situation.’

For a moment, Alistair thought he’d managed to mollify Sir Thomas. The older man nodded, but it was not a favourable agreement. ‘You most certainly did. It seems to be a trend with you. I’ve heard stories about your gambling and wagering. It seems taking chances is second nature to you. I may have done some overestimating of my own. I had hoped offering you some responsibility in my business and in my family would steer you towards a steadier course. Your father had hoped it, too.’

How had he ever thought Sir Thomas a kind, fatherly man? He was positively maniacal when it came to twisting the knife of guilt. ‘I do not know that a marriage between you and Ismay is something I want any longer. You have two weeks to prove yourself. I will write to your father and explain the situation. That is all. I am sure you will want to go up and refresh yourself.’

Dismissed, like a recalcitrant youth caught stealing brandy and cigars. Alistair had never felt a shame so acute as he did climbing the stairs to his chambers. Sir Thomas was right. He ought to have forbidden Ismay the climb. He would not have been successful, but he should have tried. He’d not understood the extent of the danger until it had nearly been too late. And now the shame was double. Sir Thomas was writing to his father. His father would know he’d failed. Again. This time, in front of his father’s oldest friend.

Upstairs, Alistair dismissed the valet. He would unpack his own bag. He was in no mood for company. But the valet had barely left when Ismay quietly opened the door and slipped in. ‘Iz, it’s not a good time,’ he began.

She ignored his request. ‘Was my father stern with you?’

Alistair sat down hard on the bed, his head in his hands. Everything was starting to unravel. The ruse had taken on a life of its own, with consequences of its own. ‘He suggested I should have forbidden you the climb.’

Ismay came to sit beside him. ‘I wouldn’t have listened. He doesn’t understand the mountain is always in a state of eruption. People climb it all the time. Did he really think you could have stopped me?’

‘A worthy husband would have tried, at least. And he is right about that.’

‘But that’s the whole point. You’re not a worthy husband.’ She gave a soft laugh. ‘That’s the plan, right?’ It was the second time she’d pointed that out. She’d made a similar remark at the accademia’s lecture. Something deep inside him stirred in rebellion. Maybe he wanted to be a good husband, a worthy fiancé. Was that the truth, or was he merely being contrary, wanting to take the opposition against Ismay out of habit?

‘I didn’t think the plan coming to fruition would sting so much,’ Alistair confessed. He’d been full of bravado earlier today, bolstering Ismay when she’d told him about her talk with her mother, assuring her that this was what they’d worked for, what they wanted. Nay, what they needed. Only now, he wasn’t so sure.

‘I have to go change for supper.’ She squeezed his hand and rose. ‘In a few weeks this will all be behind you. You will be in Florence with Hayes, and the world will have righted itself.’ Hiding. He’d be in Florence hiding from his father under the guise of helping Hayes. That’s what he would really be doing, not starting a new life.

Alistair stepped out onto his balcony, looking for peace, but the view of the bay in the distance failed to soothe him. Instead, it forced him to embrace an uncomfortable truth. He didn’t want to be in Florence. He wanted to be here. There was so much to do. Sir Thomas needed help with the business, and he’d turned out to have a talent for many aspects of it. He already had a small client list of his own, men like Lord Danton, who were impressed with his ability to acquire pieces for their collections. He had connections to help Ismay gather funding for an all-women scientific publication. If he left, the connections would go with him. He wanted to see the look on Professor Loughty’s face when that first edition came out. There were things to do here, things only he could do if he dared. It would require courage to stay. He’d have to go back on his word to Ismay.

He leaned on the balustrade. He’d found purpose here, a life here, only he’d realised it too late, when he was being asked to leave. If it was just Sir Thomas doing the asking, he’d argue against it. He’d find a way to prove himself, to reverse the damage the ruse had done. But it was not only Sir Thomas asking. Ismay was, too.

To stay would trap Ismay in a marriage she didn’t want. He could not do that to her, could not betray her after she’d been betrayed by men before—like Loughty and Ashford and even her father. He did not want to add to the list. For her sake, he must make the sacrifice. And perhaps he needed to make the sacrifice for himself. Did he want to marry Ismay, or did he just want the things that came with that marriage? That was also unfair to her. But that sacrifice would take a different kind of courage. No one would ever know how hard it was for him to leave. They would see only a rake going on his rakish way, off to a new adventure, but he would know all he’d held in his hand and what it had cost him to give it up. All he could do now was seize what moments of paradise remained.

Chapter Fifteen

The cost of seizing paradise turned out to be less than a handful of grana, a gratifyingly small sum for the pleasure of a ferry to the isle of Ischia. Alistair had business to conduct for Sir Thomas: a client was interested in a pair of small Bronze Age figurines that were available for purchase. But it hardly seemed like work. Ismay had come along with a picnic basket, the sun was out, and the breeze off the deep blue water smelled of salt and adventure.

Alistair stood at the boat’s railing, letting the breeze tousle his hair. ‘It’s still hard for me to believe such a place exists where the sun shines in early winter, where there’s warmth all year, and such colour. In England, the world goes grey this time of year. I think Eden must have been like this. Does all of this beauty ever get mundane for you, Iz?’

She shook her head. ‘I like to think of all those who have sailed these waters a millennium before us, trading and exploring, marvelling at the wonders of their age, thinking they were living in the most modern of times, having transportation at their fingertips. I imagine them looking out to the isles from the mainland the way we look to the stars, thinking What’s out there and how do I get there? And then they built boats, and the islands were no longer a mystery.’

‘After that, they built better boats, bigger, faster, stronger, and they went farther, saw more.’ Alistair reached for her hand, a gesture that had become commonplace between them in the days since returning from Vesuvius. ‘What shall we build to reach the stars, Iz?’ He laced his fingers through hers.

She smiled, and it seemed that the sun burned all the brighter in that moment. ‘Whatever it is, it will take more than boats. I think it is harder to master the air than it is to master water. Look, we’re nearly there. The water is changing colour.’

The deep blue had lightened to a bright aquamarine. ‘It’s the colour of your eyes. I’d not seen eyes that colour before, and now I don’t think I shall ever see it again without thinking of them.’ Or of her. It would be the colour he would forever associate with the Bay of Naples close to the shore, the color of her laughter and her mischief as she sat on her bed swigging whiskey from his flask after midnight with the veteran élan of a pirate.